Deathwatch (The Faded Earth Book 1)(34)
“Cheating bitch,” Caleb said.
Without warning, Reeves snapped out a side kick that caught Caleb in the gut and bent him in half. The younger man was unprepared for the attack. He fell to the mat again, this time clutching his stomach as he coughed and then vomited. Beck deftly avoided the splash, sending a mental thank-you to Fisher for letting her work in a place where occasional overindulgence made being light on her feet a necessity.
Reeves also avoided the splatter, stepping away with arms tucked behind his back. There was no particular inflection as he spoke, but the command in his voice was impossible to miss. “Johnson, the next time I hear you speak that way, you’re done. And I won’t be so gentle again. Park, you’re finished for now. Go get a drink. Johnson here has to clean up his mess while he and I have a little talk.”
Beck joined the rest of the cohort at the edge of the training ground. This was a large square building with a staggering array of weapons populating racks around its edges. People were clustered in small groups, though Beck had yet to find common ground with any of them so far. Making friends seemed even less likely now, given the wary looks cast her direction.
It wasn’t that she was being isolated from cruelty. Beck understood the basic human nature in play. Her experience with Eshton and other members of the Watch, as well as her knowledge of the Movement, gave her a perspective they lacked. Knowing Bowers wanted her involved also made her more brunt and daring than she might have otherwise been.
That small safety net meant she felt better about taking small risks like spitting blood in someone’s face without being told to. Conversely, having some idea of the stakes gave her a mildly terrifying understanding of how important it was to push limits but not to break them.
She drank her measured share of water with eyes weighing heavy on her. The training was already paying off; each day was less hellish up until they added yet another new routine. Hers was the first actual fight, a demonstration of form after two hours of practicing the same repeating motions.
Something about the training so far clicked with her. The structure and logic of the system resonated with the part of her brain that worked with mechanical and electronic systems. That first run had been a nightmare, but once she began to think about the way her body moved during it and made incremental changes, the work grew easier. Adjust the length of a stride here, loosen a hip muscle there, and keep a constant mental grip on the changes until they became second nature.
Running was the first step toward better bodily control, yet another example of how everything here was an interconnected lesson. This more than any other factor set Beck apart from the class. Her fascination with the method, with picking apart and understanding the linked relationships between every activity they endured, occupied her attention whenever Reeves was not teaching.
The turning point in how she viewed training here came when she began to think of the process as a machine. A set of moving parts dependent on each other to function properly. From that perspective, Beck could find a place to work.
If that meant eating alone and struggling in silence, so be it.
*
On the sixth day, their full schedule was out of flux and finally set in stone. Beck found herself perversely enjoying that aspect—even if she didn’t know what the specifics of a lesson might entail, she would never be surprised by the broad category of it. She found she enjoyed that aspect, the curiosity about what new fighting technique they would learn or which meditative practice they would have to practice keeping the difficulty of the work itself from overwhelming.
She sat in the hot courtyard of the main barrack, knees in front and feet tucked under. Her hands rested on her thighs, fingers forming loose circles. The other recruits sat in a grid around her, postures identical. They were packed tight.
The first day of meditation was spent practicing the basic principles they would use to bring their minds to rest. Reeves was abundantly clear on the difficulty curve involved; even at the end of training it would only be the beginning of their trek toward mental clarity and control. Beck found it easy enough to settle her mind into a place of relative peace and tranquility, but much harder to keep it there. As with most of her waking hours since the death of her family, idleness brought their faces forward and drew them in sharp focus.
Every time this happened, she felt the carefully-controlled space around her conscious mind crack and had to start over. Focus on the darkness behind her eyes. Visualize something destructive or transitional—in her case, a chute not dissimilar from the spoil shafts used in the mine. Beck imagined the pain, the anger, the love, the joy, every emotion running through her, as stone and dust. Then swept them toward the void and let them fall away.
From what she had overheard the others say, she felt this internal metaphor was clunky at best. Some of them used visualizations like fire burning up their concerns or water washing them away, and Beck had tried every one she heard them discuss and more. Yet none felt right but this. The simple familiarity of it just worked. How many hours had she spent pushing a broom or shovel to manage the task when the machinery had failed? Too many to count.
That first day was spent in the cool of the combat square, the soft mat beneath them and their bodies at maximum comfort. Reeves was equally clear that this would change as well, and the man was good to his word. Every session was a combination of new challenges, from the addition of persistent noises that had to be ignored to the new locale with its baking heat.